


blame and admiration

by lahtays



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, lavellan has a crush and isn't happy about it, yea i dont actually know what this is lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahtays/pseuds/lahtays
Summary: Ashara Lavellan hasn't been sleeping, and Solas has noticed. A tense conversation ensues.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	blame and admiration

Harsh winds lash against a dozen purpled bruises on Ashara’s face, a steady reminder of a truth the world will not permit her to forget.

She is so far away from the person she _needs_ to be right now.

She sits cross legged atop a makeshift crate – filled with the few scant supplies they had managed to evacuate from Haven – hunched over her journal and staring intently at the same page she’s been trying to read for the last twenty minutes to no avail. She doesn’t hear Solas’s approach; he has a light step, even for one of the people, and so the hint of snow crunching underfoot goes unnoticed, drowned out by her own ever-growing exhaustion.

“Lady Lavellan.”

His reserved greeting sounds amplified in her fatigued state and she jumps, craning her neck around to catch him leaning against a tent pole, regarding her with a somewhat clinical concern.

 _Somewhat_ clinical. Whatever else is teasing the shadows of his expression is as unreadable to her in this state as the pages of her incoherent journal.

She grits her teeth and turns back to the leather-bound book in her lap, willing away the memories of his sacrifice in Redcliffe, which these days troubles her only slightly less than her too-fresh memories of Haven.

“It’s late, _lethallin_ ,” she murmurs without looking at him. “Get some sleep. The Inquisition needs its guide at his best.”

“One could say the same for its herald.” Solas replies, not unkindly, and Ashara works to hold back a scoff.

So many of their interactions can be best described as that – _‘not unkind’_. As far as she’s aware, Solas respects her, but does not admire her. He follows her, but knows better than to trust her. He heeds her instructions, out of pragmatism rather than any real sense of comradery. And whatever flirtations they may indulge in remain just that - an indulgence. It’s a fair practicality, one she had gladly shared in only a few short weeks before. Things had been so simple, and then …

And then _Redcliffe_. And then she shared … _something_ with him; a moment that only she can remember, and one that, arguably, never actually occurred in the first place.

That thought alone is borderline _infuriating_. Try as she might, her thoughts won’t leave her, and try as she might, neither will her newfound feelings. Her hopeless, humiliating desire for him to _like_ her.

And once more, she feels the same insistent tug from her current circumstances; even after Haven, she is still thinking about herself. _Despicable._

_“Ashara.”_

Yet again his words startle her, drawing her from her rambling introspections. He’s moved from his position at the refugee tent, and is now hovering before her, looking down at her with slightly furrowed brows. “You’re exhausted.” He states softly.

Ashara sighs. “ _Everyone_ is exhausted.”

“And yet that does not make my observations any less troubling. You _are_ exhausted, and you have neglected to heal your injuries as a result.”

“It’s a waste of magic. Better to keep them, and have them serve as a lesson.”

“There are more forgiving ways to learn a lesson. You have been awake for _days_ , Ashara. You need rest, and sleep, lest -”

“No, actually.” Ashara snaps, feeling her sleeplessness like a dull, foreign weight upon her. “What I _need_ is to finish going over these notes. You don’t know a single thing about me, Solas, so don’t _ever_ presume to tell me what I _need_.”

Solas takes a small step back, blinking away his thinly veiled shock. Ashara casts her eyes upon the snow sodden ground, swallowing her guilt and her apologies. _There’s that look,_ she thinks regretfully. _It’s so much worse when it’s coming from him._

A beat passes and he squares his shoulders, his eyes darkening considerably, even in the dim moonlight. “Ah. _My apologies_ ,” he mutters, uncharacteristically scathing. “I forget – any genuine attempts to help you are so often met with needless hostility.”

His resentment shouldn’t hurt her as much as it does. But it does. “I dislike being patronized.” She answers with stiff shrug.

“Is there anything you _do_ like?”

Now it’s her turn to blink at him, mouth parted with a childish indignation that she would be scrambling to conceal if she weren’t so achingly _tired_. She had hoped that _he_ of all people would see …

They stay locked in their cold, silent assessment of one another for almost a minute before she finally wills herself to speak.

“I _like_ keeping these people alive.” She says slowly. Coldly. “I like taking stock of our remaining food, so that our refugees’ children don’t starve to death in the cold. I like preparing our combat strategies – our _defences_ – so that we might actually stand a chance in the likely event that we are ambushed on this journey.”

Solas says nothing, but his expression has softened from the severe scowl he was wearing only moments before. Ashara squares her jaw and keeps her eyes trained on his, unyielding.

“I like knowing that I’m doing enough - enough to protect these foolish, _innocent_ people - and right now I’m doing a fucking _terrible_ job of it. So, if it’s quite alright by you, I would _like_ to get back to these notes.”

Her conclusion is met with nothing but the mournful, howling winds of the Frostbacks, as Solas sits with the finality of her words. He is no longer looking at her but _through_ her, his expression creased with confusion and a building uncertainty.

He seems to come to some unknowable answer in his mind as the seconds pass, and his eyes refocus on hers, no longer clouded but sharp and clear and kind. He takes a tentative step towards her, hesitating only for a moment before he lowers himself to crouch on his knees in front of her.

“Haven was hardly your fault, _lethallan_.” He says softly. “The blame does _not_ fall to you.”

“To whom should it fall to instead, then? M _a ghilana_.”

“May I suggest this ‘Elder One’, as a start?”

Ashara laughs, and it sounds hollow and weak to her own ears. “ _Right_. And where is he? Who shall force this blame upon him? Shall we do it by letter, or are such things better done in person?”

Solas leans back on his knees with a sigh, and Ashara shakes her head. “You’re right, of course,” she continues. “I’m well aware that Haven was not my fault. But someone must be held accountable – _right now_ , not later. We don’t have the luxury of waiting for justice to fall into our laps - _someone_ needs to take responsibility, to address exactly what went wrong and make sure it _never_ happens again. These people deserve as much, and Creators, it might as well be me.”

Solas regards her, curious and questioning once again. His eyes are intense enough for her to consider looking away, but a smaller, far more ridiculous part of her can’t help but admit that she appreciates the way he looks at her. Like something in one of his Fade stories. Like a mystery worth solving.

“You care a great deal more than you let on.” He murmurs. She cannot tell if his words are meant as a compliment, or merely an observation. “Forgive me, I … should have noticed far earlier.”

Ashara frowns at him, gauging the authenticity of his words. He meets her stare without fear or reservation, although he still holds that same curious expression, soft and hesitant and …

No. She is too tired, and far too irritated at herself to exacerbate things by getting lost in his annoyingly pretty eyes right now.

Instead, she just sighs, and drops her gaze back down to the long-abandoned journal in her lap. “Don’t apologize,” she replies, her words mumbled as another wave of fatigue presses down upon her. “I’m not an idiot. I know I can be … off-putting, more often than not. I can hardly blame you.”

At that, Solas laughs. _There’s a nice sound,_ Ashara thinks. _It’s a good feeling, to be the cause of it._

“You are the furthest thing from off-putting,” he says with a bemused smile. “ _Challenging_ , on occasion, but then I would be lying if I said I did not hold a certain … admiration, for people who challenge me.“

Ashara raises a brow. “Are you saying you admire me?” she frowns, skeptical.

His smile is softer this time, older and stranger than she has seen it yet. “Very much so.” He answers gently. “I had … reservations, though they have been … significantly lessened, after tonight.”

What can she say to that? There’s something uncomfortable and heavy weighing in her chest, and even in spite of the icy cold, she can feel a flush of heat begin to creep across her cheeks. She opens her journal and keeps her head down, hoping the darkness will hide the tell-tale signs of her sentimentality.

She really, truly, _absolutely_ cannot afford to be thinking about him like this.

And yet here she is. Doing just that.

“At the risk of your ire,” Solas continues slyly, after a few minutes of knowing silence. “I really must insist; you _should_ sleep, _lethallan_. It is far too cold for you to remain out here all night, and I … worry about you during the days.”

“I see I’m not the only one who cares more than they claim to.” She hopes her voice sounds less shaken to his ears than it does to hers.

Solas only shrugs, his face now carefully collected. “An interesting point. Perhaps we should both sleep on its implications.”

She scoffs at him, but he meets her eye as if daring her to argue, a faint, barely-there smile playing at the corner of his mouth. They hold each other’s gaze in a mental standoff for a few moments, before finally her exhaustion overcomes her pride. She rolls her eyes, humours him with a small smirk, and resigns to slide herself off the crate.

“You win, then.” She grumbles, to which his smile brightens. “Although, I should warn you - I’m going to be an utter nightmare tomorrow morning when some poor fool is forced to wake me up. But then, you do so _love_ a challenge, yes?”

“So I do.” Solas laughs. “Sweet dreams, Ashara.”

“Goodnight, Solas.”

As Ashara makes her slow journey back to her tent, her mind is hounded by thoughts of soft grey eyes and small smiles; long, slender fingers and broad shoulders and a laugh lighter than the mountain air itself. And as she lays her head down and gives herself up to the gentle relief of sleep, she concedes that said thoughts are perhaps not such a terrible thing to be hounded by.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ! 
> 
> wishing you all happiness during the holiday season and good luck for the new year!!


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